


Paterfamilias

by Anna_Hopkins



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Book 1: Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone, Family Fluff, Father Figures, Fluff, Gen, Gratuitously Hot Voldemort, Guardian Voldemort, Guardian-Ward Relationship, Hogwarts First Year, Pre-Slash, sequel planned
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-19
Updated: 2019-12-14
Packaged: 2020-07-08 08:07:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19866280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anna_Hopkins/pseuds/Anna_Hopkins
Summary: As part of a lesson on boggarts and dementors, students are asked to write about their greatest fear, and why they think it is what it is. Quirrell (and thus, Voldemort) read Harry's answer to that question, and are...rather surprised.(Or: Voldemort finds out about the cupboard. Plans change.)





	1. Another Year 1 AU

In his office on the second floor of Hogwarts, one Quirinus Quirrell lay his head down against the cool surface of his desk, gazing wearily at the dreadfully large stack of scrolls that awaited him for grading.  _ 'Assign an essay,' he says, _ the wizard despaired,  _ 'it'll be useful' he says... _

Dumbledore had had some sort of epiphany at the most recent staff meeting and all but demanded Quirrell teach his first through third years about Boggarts, Dementors, and Mind Flayers, in defiance of the Ministry curriculum. It would have been enough to lecture on the bloody things, but no, his Lord had added a demand of his own. So he had assigned a  _ short essay _ for all students in all three years: "What do you believe is your greatest fear? Why?"

The Dark Lord hadn't shared his motivations for the order, which was the usual way of things, but it chafed Quirrell a bit. Wouldn't most of these children just lie?

He picked up the first scroll from the stack; they were alphabetical, of course. Hannah Abbott's greatest fear was...moths. Because they chewed holes in her favorite sweater. How Hufflepuff.

Perhaps his Lord was merely punishing Quirinus, making him read these. The essay was being graded very loosely, after all; he hadn't even set a length requirement. He slogged through the childrens' simple fears: spiders, mummies, Professor Snape (ha!) -- and complex ones: failure, disownment, poverty.

Parkinson...Patil 1...Patil 2...Perks... _ Potter. _

The familiar sensation of goosebumps on the back of his head alerted Quirrell to his master's attention. "Read the boy's essay for me," Voldemort ordered in a whisper. "Tell me...what he fears."

_ So it was all about Potter after all, _ the Defense Professor sighed, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. The Dark Lord's obsession with knowing everything about the Potter boy had not waned in the months since the beginning of term, sadly.

He took a deep breath, opening his mouth to read -- and stopped, blinking, rereading the first few lines. Honestly, Quirrell had had very low expectations for Harry Potter's essay given his performance so far. Now, his eyebrows were climbing into his hairline, the more he read.

"Quirinus," Voldemort reminded him, sending a burning sensation down Quirrell's spine.  _ "Read it aloud." _

"Yes, my lord," he replied immediately, but still hesitated for a moment before continuing. "'I don't know what I'm scared of,' the boy writes. 'If I had to choose, I think it would be death. And being forgotten. Or death  _ from _ being forgotten. Sometimes, my aunt and uncle forget that I'm in my cupboard for days and I have to wait for them to unlock it.'

"The essay ends there, my Lord," Quirrell murmured, perturbed.

Voldemort was...remarkably silent, for a time. Even his presence seemed to diminish, to freeze; Quirrell felt a numbness over his hands and feet, and repressed a shudder.

When the Dark Lord finally spoke again, it was in a quiet voice Quirrell had not heard from him before. "Death..." He trailed off, seemingly lost in thought.

"...my Lord?"

"Silence, Quirinus. I am pondering."

Quirrell glanced at the remainder of the ungraded essays, weighing his chances of getting away with finishing them during the Dark Lord's imposed quiet time. Ultimately, the choice was taken from him: in the same moment he came to a decision, his master spoke again.

"Do you know, Quirinus, that one of my first decrees, were I to control Britain, was to be the removal of wizarding children from the care of Muggles?"

"...No, my Lord. May I ask why?"

“Hm. I am not surprised. My list of grievances was not...nailed to the doors of the Ministry Atrium, so to speak; nor was it ever publicised beyond the ranks of my followers during the heights of the movement. I wonder...never mind. As for why, however…” He trailed off again, but not for as long a time. This was, Quirrell thought, the most he’d heard his Lord speak in a while. “It is precisely because of situations like Potter has described in his essay. A  _ cupboard, _ Quirinus. The minimum for a house-elf is  _ two _ cupboards!”

Quirrell shivered under the weight of his Lord's anger. That it was, for once, not directed at  _ him _ was little relief. "You will fabricate an excuse for me to speak to the boy," Voldemort ordered him. "Moreover...you will locate the ingredients of the following potion..." And he listed off more than two dozen reagents, of which Quirrell recognized half to be Ministry-regulated.

He dared not question the Dark Lord's plans, but was this course of action truly wise?

It took about a week to prepare the potion -- or rather,  _ potions _ \-- his Lord demanded. Quirrell had no idea what exactly they did, but he drank one inky black concoction when he was ordered to, fifteen minutes prior to the time he arranged with Potter. The other substance, he poured out in a circle upon the ground from the hollowed-out gourd it had been held in, spilling seven drops of his blood when the circle was completed.

The moment the last drop hit the circle of glittering grey potion, Quirrell was overtaken by a wave of dizziness so strong he barely managed to reach his chair before he collapsed into it. He had the strangest feeling of  _ detachment _ from his body, all of a sudden; and the potion on the floor was vaporizing, forming a glowing shape not unlike a Hogwarts ghost, becoming more and more solid…

Potter knocked on the door, and Quirrell heard himself bid the boy come in.

“Th-thank you for coming by, Mr. P-Potter,” his mouth spoke, directed by another’s will -- by  _ Voldemort’s _ will. He gestured toward the empty armchair that the Dark Lord had earlier demanded he conjure. “P-please have a s-s-seat.”

Potter was staring at the figure in the other chair, who Quirrell could not see from his current position as more than a blur of dark fabric and hair. “Er, if you’re busy, sir, I can come back later --?”

“No, no, not at all,” the Dark Lord spoke -- his voice melodic now, deeply musical,  _ substantial _ in a way that Quirrell had never heard him speak. He wondered what form the potion vapors had taken. “Quirinus has asked you here so that I could speak with you, in fact, Mr. Potter.”   
“With  _ me _ ?” The boy’s eyebrows rose. He seemed honestly shocked; Quirrell heard the unspoken,  _ No one ever wants to speak with  _ me _ , _ in the response.

“Yes, with you. Ah, pardon my rudeness, I have forgotten to introduce myself.” The Dark Lord stood up from the chair, crossing the room so he stood closer to Potter (who had not yet taken the seat offered to him, and still stood by the door). Quirrell could see only the back of him, but he looked -- he looked like a  _ man _ . A normal man. A normal  _ wizard _ . It was the oddest illusion; he had been unable to conceive of the Dark Lord having ever  _ been _ human, and to see even a silhouette in human shape unsettled him.

He wondered what the Dark Lord’s face looked like.

“Thomas Marvolo Gaunt,” the not-a-man proclaimed, offering a hand to the boy to shake.

“...Harry James Potter,” the boy replied, sounding confused. “Erm. What did you want to speak with me about?”

“Please, sit, and I will explain,” said ‘Gaunt’, returning to his seat. Quirrell got a clear glimpse of his face as he turned: he really  _ did _ look human. Even his eyes were a different color -- a vivid green, instead of red…

Thus invited, Potter finally sat. Quirrell’s mouth opened again: “M-my apologies for s-springing an unexpected v-v-visitor on you,” he stammered out. “Mister G-Gaunt is an old f-f-friend. He has only just r-returned to B-Britain after many d-decades of travel.”

Potter was looking at them each in turn, wide-eyed and...relieved? Quirrell wondered what he had expected to hear. Albus  _ had _ warned them all against fawning over him like a celebrity…

“It was quite a journey,” Voldemort mused, leaning back in his chair. “But I have returned to Britain for the foreseeable future; am now settling my affairs from being abroad so long -- and what do I find, Mr. Potter,” he leaned forward, tone shifting to conspiratorial, “but that the Hogwarts Headmaster has taken guardianship of a student under my protection, without telling me!”

Potter tilted his head. “Who is it?” he asked, voice equally low.

“To my great surprise,” the Dark Lord answered, “it is  _ you _ , Mr. Potter. And after my attempts to contact you by owl went awry, I realized the best course of action would be to visit in person.”

The boy blinked several times, clearly taken aback. “... _ Me _ ?” he asked, voice small. “Are you sure it isn’t a mistake…?”

“Absolutely certain,” Voldemort said, brooking no argument. “So I must begin by asking: with whom have you been living, up until now? None of my family remains; nor do any Potters I know of; and I heard nothing of Dumbledore himself housing a child…” Quirrell could not see -- his mouth was engaged in drinking tea -- but he assumed the not-a-man was putting on a pensive expression, from his tone.

“Er, with my mum’s Muggle relatives,” Potter answered hesitantly. “My Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon and cousin Dudley.” He glanced in turn at the floor, at Quirrell, then back to Voldemort, eyes wide.

The Dark Lord hummed. “No, no, that simply will not do. Placing my charge in the hands of Muggles...I cannot imagine what Dumbledore was thinking.”

“Do you mean you’ll...take me away from them?” Potter’s eyes looked awfully  _ hopeful _ . In fact, he had scarcely looked so lively in all the times Quirrell had seen him. The boy hastily appended, “Sir?”

“That is my intention, yes,” Voldemort answered. “To be quite frank, I am glad you approve of the idea, Mr. Potter. I had worried you might be fonder of them than you seem to be.”

Potter wrinkled his nose. “The Dursleys don’t really...well, like me, sir. And I don’t like them very much either.”

"I am g-given to understand, Mr. Potter," Quirrell found himself speaking up again, "th-that they lock you in a c-c-cupboard?"

“Erm, sometimes, yes,” the boy nodded, flushing as though embarrassed. “They gave me Dudley’s second bedroom this summer, though,” he hastened to add. Privately, Quirrell was amazed, in the same way as he might be by a gruesome spell mishap, that  _ he had really been living in a cupboard all this time _ . The Dark Lord’s evident sincerity in taking guardianship of the boy was not nearly as shocking, strange as it still was.

If Voldemort could still sense Quirrell’s thoughts (and thereby make plans to punish him for his disbelief later), he did not give any indication of it. “The sooner I formally claim guardianship, the better,” he decided aloud. “I will be visiting the Ministry immediately to complete the paperwork.

“In the meantime,” he added as if in afterthought, “please do call me Marvolo. We will meet again tomorrow afternoon, at latest, when I return to have words with the Headmaster about all this. Perhaps with several Aurors present…” He trailed off, lost in thought.

“Okay, sir -- er, Marvolo -- please call me Harry?” The boy was practically abuzz with excitement.

Voldemort stood from the armchair. “I’ll have this taken care of in a jiffy, Harry,” he said, reaching over to ruffle the boy’s hair. “See you tomorrow.” He then turned to the fireplace and Flooed out -- ‘Ministry of Magic, Blood Affairs Office’. Quirrell flinched at the sudden return of his body to conscious control; his Lord, however, remained curiously absent from his mind. Had he really Flooed to the Ministry?  _ How was the Dark Lord still corporeal? _

“Professor,” Potter murmured in wonderment, distracting him from his confusion, “you’d tell me if I were dreaming, right?”

“Of course, Mr. Potter,” Quirrell managed to say -- his stammer gone, for the moment. “You are quite awake. And therefore in need of a hall pass for curfew…”

Long after the boy had departed, Quirrell remained in his seat. He felt...remarkably lucid, now. When the Dark Lord did not return from the Ministry (if he had truly gone there) by midnight, he stood up shakily and went to bed.

Even then, he lay awake for several hours, barely getting any rest in his utter confusion as to what was going on. He had not been given orders past the use of the potions earlier; after so many months of being dependent on his Lord, he found he actually  _ hoped _ Voldemort would return to possess him again -- if only to return some sense of stability now that the world was shifting on its axis.

_ The Dark Lord _ , he mused,  _ taking guardianship of the Boy-Who-Lived _ .

Only then did the thought occur to him.

_...What was going to happen tomorrow? _


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _...What was going to happen tomorrow?_

Harry had sometimes imagined that a mysterious stranger might appear to take him away from the Dursleys. The idea usually came to him when he'd been in the cupboard for a while. In his imagination, they would break down the front door and demand to see Harry Potter in a voice that brooked no argument. There was some variety in the precise identity of his rescuer; it could be a friend of his parents', or one or both of his parents themselves, shockingly alive. Occasionally, Harry's mind would just make up an entirely new character, some fellow in a top hat and a suit and a cane, a long-lost uncle, et cetera, like the surprise characters in Aunt Petunia's soaps.

Watching the doors to the Great Hall burst open during lunch with a loud bang to reveal the wizard he'd met just last night -- Marvolo -- and a contingent of wizards in scarlet robes, marching down the main aisle up to the Head Table, had excitement tying knots in his stomach. It was just like he'd imagined -- Merlin, the man even had the  _ hat! _ And he was causing quite a stir: all around Harry, the students were muttering and whispering amongst themselves, watching with eyes nearly as wide as Harry's own.

"Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore," Marvolo addressed the Headmaster -- Harry stifled a laugh, as it sounded like he was scolding an unruly child -- "It has come to my attention that you are holding guardianship over a student who should by all rights be my charge. I am here to stake my claim, and demand you turn over the role to me!"

The Slytherin students were exchanging looks amongst themselves in quiet uproar, Harry saw. Anticipation built in the air around all Houses as the Headmaster stood up from the Head Table, drawing himself to his full height. He had not yet drawn his wand, but it was clear from his stance that he meant to. "I am afraid," Dumbledore spoke slowly, but clearly, "that I do not know precisely the student to whom you refer; nor do I know  _ your  _ name."

_ "I _ am Lord Thomas Marvolo Gaunt, of House Gaunt," proclaimed Marvolo with obvious pride -- the Slytherin table was aflutter with whispers -- "and I refer to one Harry James Potter, Heir Potter, soon to be Heir Potter-Gaunt."

Gasps from every House, particularly the seventh-years at Harry's table. Eyes were flickering rapidly between Harry and Marvolo and Dumbledore; some students at the Slytherin table actually had their mouths open in shock. "Bloody hell, Harry," Ron whispered, impressed, "is this the same bloke you told us about last night?"

Harry nodded, beaming too hard to speak. He'd returned to Gryffindor Tower the previous night in a burst of energy, and pulled his two friends aside to bable excitedly about the news. They'd been shocked then; they were probably even more shocked now. Even Harry hadn't pictured Marvolo as the confrontational type, much as the man had implied it.

Now, Harry saw Dumbledore turn to the wizards escorting Marvolo. He looked seconds from drawing his wand -- and was it just Harry's imagination, or did he seem rather pale? "Auror Proudfoot," he addressed one of the scarlet-robed figures ('Aurors', Harry assumed) in particular. "Has the Ministry already confirmed this man's identity?"

"As of two hours ago, yes," the wizard -- Proudfoot -- confirmed, nodding. "Lord Thomas Marvolo Gaunt, formerly Tom Marvolo Riddle, graduated Hogwarts class of 1943 --"

"He's  _ in his sixties?" _ Hermione whispered. "He doesn't look half that age."

Meanwhile, Dumbledore was going paler and paler. "And the validity of his claim..?"

_ "Absolutely solid," _ Marvolo snarled, at the same time as another Auror piped up, "Fully validated."

Some of the tension left the Headmaster's shoulders, as if he were about to sink back into his seat, or perhaps slump against the wall in a dead faint. "...I see," he said weakly. "If you will join me in my office, gentlemen, I am sure that we can work this out..."

"Of course we can," Marvolo answered reasonably, with a tip of his head. "I must insist that my heir be present for the proceedings, however. Come along, Harry." He turned to look at the Gryffindor table, holding an arm out, and the collective gaze of the Great Hall went with him -- all eyes were on Harry now, including Dumbledore's sparkling blue ones. Feeling his cheeks heat, Harry hefted his satchel onto his shoulder and got to his feet, walking quickly over. The corners of Marvolo's eyes crinkled as he smiled down at him, and Harry found himself remarkably more at ease when the man put his arm around his shoulders than he would have if anyone else had done it. It was on the whole a strangely pleasant feeling: Marvolo radiated reassurance like heat.

"Chin up, Harry," murmured Lord Gaunt in a bemused undertone, "you're free."

Their peculiar assembly followed the Headmaster out of the Great Hall, Marvolo adjusting his pace so Harry could keep up, and it was only once they had gone that Draco Malfoy broke the emergent silence to shout, "There's no  _ way--!" _

With all the students in the Great Hall, Hogwarts' corridors were as empty as they ever got, and Harry took a moment to appreciate the way the light filtered through the windows, the steady harmonious footfalls of the group of wizards against the stone, the light brushing of Marvolo's robes against his side as they walked up to Dumbledore's office. The rather tense silence that had emerged set a weird mood for the few minutes between the Great Hall and the stone gargoyle that marked the entrance, but Harry wasn't overly keen to break the silence.

Marvolo had, as a matter of practicality, dropped his arm from Harry's shoulders once they were away from the crowd -- "hard to walk like that," he'd chuckled, and Harry agreed. The memory of his hand's weight on Harry's shoulder stayed with him, though, an odd comfort given Harry's usual preference not to be touched at all.

When they did reach their destination, Harry squinted at the gargoyle in surprise; he had passed it dozens of times without noticing anything special about it. "Lemon drops," said Dumbledore soberly, and the statue animated, moving to the side to reveal an open doorway. The headmaster crossed the threshold first, followed by one of the Aurors, then by Marvolo and Harry, with the rest of the scarlet cohort following behind. "Moving staircase," Marvolo murmured to Harry when he moved to take a step.

Dumbledore's office itself was a large, round room, with shelves built into the walls and a platform on one side; there were books, and moving baubles making all sorts of sounds in a rhythmic racket; a fire crackled merrily to one side; and then there was the headmaster's desk, half of it piled high with parchment. Harry spotted an empty wooden perch beside the desk; did Dumbledore have a pet bird? An owl, maybe?

What caught his attention the most was the sheer number of moving portraits on the walls, though. Old headmasters and headmistresses, by the labels on each frame -- all of them snoozing gently where they hung, at least until Dumbledore seated himself behind his claw-footed desk and conjured several chairs for everyone to sit in. Marvolo moved Harry's chair closer to his own, so that when they sat down, he could lay an arm around the back of it.

"Before we begin," Dumbledore spoke up, "could I interest anyone in a lemon drop? Harry?" Twinkling blue eyes fixed on Harry's face; shying from the gaze, Harry glanced to Marvolo, who was watching the Headmaster with a small frown. "No thank you, sir," he replied.

It seemed the old wizard had expected as much. "Down to business then, I suppose. Mister... Gaunt... may I see the documents?"

Marvolo drew a stack of flat sheets of parchment from his coat. "Certainly," he replied. "I would not expect this to proceed without them." While Dumbledore lifted the first page of the stack, Marvolo passed a second copy of the papers to Harry -- "If you wish to follow along," he murmured in Harry's ear.

Grinning, Harry read the title page -- when was the last time anyone had bothered to keep him in the loop, that he could remember? Even Hagrid had forgotten to tell him how to get to Platform Nine and Three-Quarters.

There was a long silence while Dumbledore perused each page; Harry skimmed the table of contents, finding that most of the document was more formal than he could quite comprehend, and instead watched as a frown grew on the Headmaster's face, the more he read. When he'd finally reached the end, setting the stack down, Dumbledore looked to have aged ten years. He looked back up at them all with an expression Harry could only call 'grave'. "I confess myself surprised, Mr. Gaunt," and here Harry noticed that he didn't call Marvolo by the title he'd announced earlier; he wondered if that was on purpose, "that you would choose now to assert your guardianship over young Harry. He has been in the care of his aunt and uncle for ten years already."

"And he is the worse off for it," Marvolo rejoined immediately. "You will find my commentary on Harry's living conditions on the eighteenth page of the document. My estate is far better equipped to care for a magical child than their... house."

Dumbledore reviewed the page in question -- as did Harry. It was entitled  _ Grievances Section II: Unsatisfactory Living Conditions. _ Harry flushed in embarrassment at seeing his cupboard mentioned several times in the paragraphs underneath the heading.

When the Headmaster finished reading, his expression had gone pensive; but the look in his eyes brooked no argument when he spoke again. "There remains the matter of the protections Harry's mother placed around the house at Privet Drive --"

"Yes, his  _ mother, _ I'm sure," Marvolo... sneered? His grip on the back of Harry's chair had briefly tensed, that Harry could feel. "While I admire your attempt to divert the topic of conversation to just  _ who  _ placed blood wards on a Muggle dwelling," the Aurors all stiffened in their seats now, looking at Dumbledore with surprise -- and on one face, suspicion -- "it is irrelevant here: the wards on the grounds of my estate are several times more powerful. I do not  _ appreciate  _ the suggestion that my own protections are lacking." A pause. "You of all people ought to know they have been... thoroughly tested."

Harry glanced to the side, watching Marvolo speak. The man fairly radiated strength; he spoke with complete confidence, and it was incredible to realize all this effort was employed in protecting  _ Harry.  _ Noticing Harry's eyes on him, Marvolo spared Harry a glance and a small smile before turning back to face Dumbledore. "If you would be so kind as to sign your acknowledgement without further deliberation, Headmaster?"

Then, to Harry's great surprise, Dumbledore actually  _ glared  _ at Marvolo. (Harry had never seen that expression on the man's face before.) "I do not know what game you are playing, Mr.  _ Gaunt," _ he emphasized the name with clear distaste, "but I have not forgotten your school days nearly as easily as your yearmates have -- those few who remain alive and well, that is. I hope that you will take proper responsibility for Harry, given the circumstances surrounding his parents' deaths."

Whatever he was implying went over Harry's head, but he didn't miss the way Marvolo's nose wrinkled in clear annoyance. "You have no right to speak to me of responsible care for one's  _ family, _ Albus Dumbledore, given  _ your  _ background. Will you sign the documents, or will I be compelled to challenge you on open ground?"

Harry had nearly missed it, this time, the way Dumbledore  _ flinched  _ as if struck when Marvolo referred to 'his background' -- blue eyes widening, just a moment, as if he had been slapped. Then he settled back in his chair, levelled one last narrow look at Marvolo, and drew forth a quill from his sleeve with pointed flourish.

The Headmaster signed and dated each page, looking more and more resigned with each signature. Marvolo, meanwhile, had leaned back in his chair, practically blooming with satisfaction with every turn of the page. The stack floated back into Marvolo's hands when the last page had been completed; he tucked it back into his coat and rose gracefully from his chair, turning to look at the Aurors with a sweep of his robes. Harry stood hastily from his own chair, going to stand beside his... guardian. _ His guardian. _

Marvolo set a hand on Harry's shoulder. "Congratulations, Harry," he smiled, drawing a silver box from his sleeve, "on your ascension to Gaunt heirship." He opened the box; inside, on a bed of black velvet, was a simple silver ring, its surface patterned like snakeskin. "Your left hand, please."

Harry held up the hand in question, and Marvolo slid the ring onto his middle finger. It glowed a deep emerald green, shrinking to fit his hand, and let out a soft hiss. "Wow," Harry said, fascinated.

Harry's guardian patted him on the shoulder and turned his attention to the rest of the room. "Now, per my rights as guardian, I will be bringing Harry with me for the weekend to acquaint him with his new home. Thank you for your time, gentlemen," he nodded to the Aurors, who nodded back, "Dumbledore," his tone colder, but still polite.

Marvolo led the way out of the office after that, Harry following close at his heels.

Harry continued to fiddle with the ring on his finger as they made their way up to Gryffindor Tower. Marvolo led the way; "I was a Slytherin, but I was also a prefect," he explained at Harry's questioning glance. "We know the location of every common room, for safety reasons."

Upon reaching the portrait of the Fat Lady, he conjured a high-backed chair and seated himself elegantly upon it with a royal air. The smile he directed at Harry showed off his neat white teeth. "Pack as much or as little as you like; we will visit Diagon Alley first, and then spend the remainder of the weekend at the Gaunt Estate."

"Did you not want to come in, sir?" Harry asked.

Marvolo gave a soft laugh. "Well, if I've been invited, I suppose I ought to." He stood, dispelling the chair, and doffed his hat to the Fat Lady with a wink. "Good afternoon, Madame."

The portrait giggled, cheeks going pink. "A good afternoon to you too," she replied.

Hurrying up the stairs to his dorm room, Harry made quick work of dumping out his satchel on his bed and refilling it with just a few things: a change of clothes, his Invisibility Cloak, a roll of empty parchment, and the galleons he'd been keeping in his trunk. There was homework for Transfiguration due Monday; he reluctantly added the book and assignment to the bag, and made a futile attempt to comb his hair, before he returned to the Common Room.

Marvolo had taken a seat in front of the fireplace, and it seemed the Great Hall had emptied out for the afternoon, as he was currently entertaining questions from a group of Gryffindors clustering around the pseudo-throne, Ron and Hermione included. Harry caught the tail end of Hermione's question as he descended the staircase: "...safer than Hogwarts?"

His guardian nodded solemnly. "Much safer, yes. I heard tell of a  _ troll  _ in the castle this year; rather exciting, I will admit, but not a shining example of the school's security. Indeed, you were present for that incident, were you not, Miss Granger?" Before she could reply, he spotted Harry, and stood up from the chair, waving it back into its proper place in the room. "Perhaps we might continue our discussion another time," Marvolo smiled. "It was a pleasure to meet you all; particularly you two, Mr. Weasley, Miss Granger," he addressed Harry's friends in turn. "It appears my heir has chosen his friends very well."

He called Harry closer with a gesture, tapping his satchel with his wand -- suddenly it was much lighter. "Much better," Marvolo nodded. "Shall we, Harry? I have much to show you over the next few days."

Hermione stared at the portrait hole for quite a while after the two had left, staring after them with rather mixed feelings. This sudden shift in Harry's life had come as a bit of a surprise -- a good surprise, but still -- and the ease with which her friend adapted, more so.

Harry had only just told them  _ last night _ about meeting this man, 'Marvolo', Lord Gaunt -- it felt as though it had come out of nowhere. For once, she had refrained from saying anything, not wanting to ruin Harry's moment, but there was something  _ off  _ about it all, something that niggled at her when she went to bed later.

At the time, it had just been the abruptness of the change, she thought: but her concerns had only grown when the wizard stormed into the Great Hall, Aurors in tow.  _ As if he were about to  _ fight  _ Dumbledore. _

And then the Headmaster had actually looked briefly  _ afraid  _ of Gaunt, when he heard his name -- it was probably an adults' matter, more than one to do with Harry, but still. Hermione had continued puzzling over it while she watched the confrontation in the Great Hall, and then, when the group made to leave, she managed to put her finger on just what bothered her about it.

It had been the way Gaunt laid his arm around Harry's shoulders; the  _ possessiveness  _ of the gesture. The  _ intensity  _ of that possessiveness, in particular: it gave off strange vibes.

And then, just now, when she and Ron (and much of Gryffindor House) had found Gaunt waiting for Harry in the common room, sitting in the very center by the fireplace as though he owned the place. He had indulged their questions, sure, but he had been merely polite and patient with them until Harry showed up -- then he was all smiles, expression soft, _ fond.  _ 'My heir has chosen his friends well,' Gaunt had said, and it sounded like a compliment to the two of them, but really, it was Harry he'd been praising.

Perhaps most discomfiting of all was the way Harry responded so readily to that praise, that attention, and was immediately at Gaunt's heels. Delighted. Obedient. Like they were in their own little world.

_ They've only just met,  _ she reflected.  _...Right? _


End file.
